


Chopsticks

by Deejaymil



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Heartbreak, Implied/Referenced Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-11
Updated: 2017-01-11
Packaged: 2018-09-16 20:24:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9288242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deejaymil/pseuds/Deejaymil
Summary: She walked to his room and wondered how many times a heart could break.





	

**Author's Note:**

> He’d taken her to dinner. He’d taken her dancing.

There was a smudge of lemon sauce on his shirt from where he’d fumbled the chopsticks she was trying to teach him to use. _I’m never going to learn,_ he’d said morosely, something dark and desperate in his eyes, and so she’d tried harder. She thought that maybe now she’d always think of that look when she opened her cutlery drawer and found the chopsticks staring accusingly at her from within. She’d tried harder, because of _course_ he could learn.

He could learn anything.

They had all the time in the world.

He’d done all this, and still she’d died. Taken on Doyle and lost. Walked away from them all, her family of choice, and left them bleeding and broken. Shattered like she’d picked them up just to throw them down; as careless and unforgiving as she’d been as a child breaking open her toys just to prove how much she didn’t care.

  _I don’t care,_ raged the lonely child with the cracked doll, kicking at anyone who came close. _I don’t care,_ thought the feckless teenager, fucking a boy because she cared far too much. _I don’t care,_ said the lonely woman, as she rode a plane away from her home.

_I care too much,_ she’d realized in the time after.

The night was cold and furiously quiet. She thought she might be in trouble, as she walked alone up the wary street. Drunk. Drunk and hurting and fucking up all over again, good job Emily, _you’ll always do this._

In her pocket, her phone was mute. Messages within. A tale told in the restricted format of SMS.

_We miss you_

_He’s not okay_

_When this is over, come home_

_He’s not okay_

_We’re not okay_

Over and over and over again and tonight she stumbled and swayed up his stairs, because she’d come back to life and he hadn’t forgiven her yet. She rapped on his door and leaned her cheek against the wood and snarled a bitter, _you can’t hate me more than I hate myself,_ against the slick wood.

And he didn’t answer.

She knocked again. Her hand ached. Plastic cut into her palm, but she let it. The bag rustled, the handle slippery and the inside coated with condensation from the rapidly cooling Chinese take-away. She’d gotten chopsticks. All the time in the world to use them.

_He thought of using._

So had she. God, so had she. Anything to quit. _I’m not afraid of dying,_ she’d told them all, and that was true. Dying was easy. Living hurt.

He didn’t answer.

She still had a key so she unlocked his door and slipped inside into the quiet room. It was empty, silent, and looked just the same as the night he’d taken her dancing. The bag sighed loudly as she put it on his coffee table, breathing in the heavy silence, and she was struck by the desire to find out if his shirt was still marked with a splash of yellow.

So she walked to his room and called his name and wondered how many times a heart could break.

He didn’t answer.

The door rocked open, knuckles on paint, and she looked at him and felt nothing at all, really. _I don’t care_ , she’d exclaimed over and over and over again, and maybe this time he’d believed the lie. _I don’t care,_ one final time, right when she realized she really fucking did.

“Spencer?” she asked the silent form, and he didn’t answer. Curled to his side, she snuck closer and traced a hand along the shape of his spine, counting the bumps. His open mouth was shaped like the cracked face of her doll, so long ago—eyes just as empty—and she pictured picking him up and tossing him down; and she pictured laughing as she did so.

She cared then.

**Author's Note:**

> **Edited August, 2017.**


End file.
